


Final Farewell

by StarsOverTheEast (orphan_account)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, not as dark - dark lords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 14:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14107548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/StarsOverTheEast
Summary: Mairon’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he rose and took a step back, reaching down to grab the until now forgotten box. A piercing shriek cut through the air as he lifted the small shape inside and deposited it into Melkor’s lap. The dragon uncurled itself, red and golden scales flashing in the dim light as it peered up at its creator.-The War of Wrath comes to its end and Melkor says farewell to both Mairon and his most beloved creation.





	Final Farewell

“Ancalagon has fallen.”

Mairon’s voice had been little more than hoarse whisper when he had appeared in the doorway of the throne room with reddened amour and embers leaping from his bare hand.

Melkor had known of course; he had felt the dragon’s life extinguish and the groan of the earth as it had fallen from the sky.

His greatest.

Gone.

And not only Ancalagon.

Many more, each a sharp pain in Melkor’s soul and the blade pierced their hide. Was this how they were to defeat him? Not content merely to raze through his many doorways but to kill each small part and corner him with blood on their swords?

Orcs, dragons, maiar, hordes of others. All fallen.

Only Mairon yet remained.

Mairon.

Melkor raised his head as his lieutenant appeared before him once more, a small box in hand and with troubled eyes.

“You must go Melkor.”

“Mairon …”

Mairon shook his head, setting the box down and crossing the final steps to Melkor’s side.

“We have fallen,” he said, his voice sharp as he placed a hand on Melkor’s shoulder. “They are coming with the fury of the Valar and the light of -”

He broke off his words, shaking his head.

The sound of a crash rang through the halls and Melkor shivered, his eyes flicking up widely to the door behind Mairon.

“You could take the tunnels.” Mairon said, his hand raising to Melkor’s crown.

How long since he had taken it off? Melkor couldn’t remember and the pain of Mairon’s fingers as he traced over the burnt iron and skin and dark clumps of hair did nothing to jog his mind.

“You hate them,” he said, as Mairon shook his head and pulled his hand back.

“Had I been with you,” Mairon replied, “I would have tossed them into the sea.”

They lingered there, a moment longer, and Mairon went to one knee.

“My Lord … ”

“They will not simply lock me in Mandos, Mairon. Look about you, at what we have done. Their fury is great and Manwë will not hear pardon.”

“Master … ”

“My power is spent, Mairon. It is in Arda, it is in my creations, it is in you.”

Another sharp crash and the shout of elves and Melkor nodded towards the door.

“Go.”

“Melkor.”

“Mairon. Go.”

“Then I …”

Mairon’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he rose and took a step back, reaching down to grab the until now forgotten box. A piercing shriek cut through the air as he lifted the small shape inside and deposited it into Melkor’s lap. The dragon uncurled itself, red and golden scales flashing in the dim light as it peered up at its creator.

“He was hatched in my forge,” Mairon explained as Melkor shakily removed one of the gauntlets from his hand. “Some of the others have escaped, and some outside may yet as well but this one …”

Any final words seemed to die in Mairon’s throat and bending down he wrapped his arm about Melkor’s shoulder.

A hug.

A final farewell.

“Go.”

Mairon departed, Melkor gazed down at the dragon in his lap; his hand resting on its back as it glanced towards the door. At the sound of a thump and a shriek the dragon hissed, seeming ready to fight the would be attacker.

Rising to his feet Melkor stepped down from his throne; each step a weight of iron as he crossed the floor towards the back of the room.

“Smaug I name you,” he said, holding the dragon to his chest. “Last of the great. But perhaps through you my children will not perish from Arda entirely.”

He had to release him, set him on a safe path away from the fortress and away from the elves. Though the warmth of the dragon was a comfort, here his only fate would be the sharp edge of a sword and scrap to be eaten or left to rot.

“Go east,” Melkor whispered, reaching the end of the room and pushing open the door that stood there. “There are mountains, caves, places you may yet find rest.”

Smaug let out a growl, staring up at him. Yet unable to speak the creature’s only communication was nonverbal and yet Melkor could understand each hum, each snarl. Fear, confusion, and a reluctant understanding.

A last bit of power, surely he could manage that? Enough for safe passage, for ensured survival. He had worked too hard, had loved them too dear for their line to end here. Perhaps in time Mairon would find them again, take them to a land far from the elves and the men and the -

Too close for comfort a door shattered and Melkor closed his eyes.  
“Let no hand of Ainu, Elf, or Man with sword lay harm up on you,” he whispered, feeling Smaug’s tiny claws wrap about one finger.

With a final glance at the dragon in his arms Melkor released him, pushing the beast forward as it flapped its wings in a desperate attempt to take to the air. For a second it hovered there, feet away, gazing back at him.

Quickly stepping back, Melkor raised his hand, striking at the arch of the door and crumpling it to stone, sealing the passage. The soft cry of Smaug rang out as he was cut off from his master and Melkor turned his back, dragging his feet across the ground.


End file.
